


The Weight Of Living

by Se7en_devils



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Mind Meld, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Psychological Trauma, So much angst, Star Trek: Into Darkness Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Se7en_devils/pseuds/Se7en_devils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the weight of living was just too much to bear.  Other times it just wasn't enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight Of Living

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Cooling](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/33784) by ApplePie1989. 



> Angst. So much angst. I regret nothing.  
> Although this is technically tagged under k/s, be warned that that is not the main focus of the story. Its not about Kirk and Spock and their great, wonderful, mushy love for each other. Its about Kirk and the complete, utter emotional mess that he's become Post STID. Because let's be honest, after the shitstorm that was Into Darkness, there was no way he got out of that thing without earning his fair share of psychological scars.  
> A big thank you to [ApplePie1989](http://applepie1989.deviantart.com), who is a lovely, gorgeous, and amazing person not only for coming up with this amazing idea, but also for having the good graces to let me use said idea. Also, the ever consistent shout out [Expelliar-Moose](http://expelliar-moose.tumblr.com) because not only is she a fantastic person in general, she also puts up with me on fairly regular basis. That has to count for something.  
> Also, yes, the title is most definitely a reference to the Bastille song - you guessed it - The Weight of Living. Now that I'm down rambling, enjoy!

It made him feel alive.

The water slapping against his skin.  Pounding.  Stinging.  Biting.  The pain singed his every nerve.  Sharp droplets beat down on him in torrents, dripping into sloppy puddles.  His golden skin flushed red with pooling blood.  Pooling blood that was not his.  Mutinous, mutinous blood.  It rang in his ears.  Spasmed through his weak, weak body.  Echoed with the pounding of sharp water droplets and gasping breaths and thundering hearts.  

It made him remember.

Sometimes, when he glanced to his side, he saw Pike.  He saw graying hair and lifeless eyes staring from the chair beside him.  During briefings, during competency hearings, during dinner and lunch and breakfast - alone in his Starfleet issued flat.  Staring at him from the doorway when he got up in the morning.  

And sometimes, when he didn’t see Pike, he saw Kahn.  In the middle of the crowd, or the corner of his (white, white, white) hospital room.  The foot of his bed, or the edge of his couch.  A dark shadow with a smile like knives and eyes that burned like fire.

The water.  The pain.  The stinging slaps against his skin; they made him remember.

That when Pike was there, grimly looking at him from across the oh-so-very grim room  (no words or telling smirks, no glances of pride or twinkling, shining gray eyes, just _looking_ and _staring,_ like none of it was enough.  Like _Kirk_ wasn’t enough and sometimes, sometimes it killed Jim a little more than it should have), it wasn't real.   _He_ wasn’t real.  He was dead.  It made him remember that when Kahn was there, with his smile and his burning eyes that stabbed at Jim’s heart and soul like a dagger (but not just _looking_ or _staring,_ he was doing so much more than that, like he was looking right into everything Jim ever was and never would be and sometimes, sometimes that killed Jim a little too) it was all in his head.   _He_ was in his head.  Because he was also dead.

_Its all in my head.  All in my head._

Or, most of it was, anyways.  There would always be that tiny bit of realism in his blood, the part that made seeing Kahn just a little more real than seeing Pike.

His arms twitched and his hands curled, resisting the urge to reach out and just cling.  To something.  Anything.  

Remembering didn’t take much.  Sometimes he didn’t even realize it.  Sometimes he was just...there.  Sometimes all he had to was blink and suddenly there was glass and light - _so much light -_ and darkness - _so much darkness, so much more than there ever was light -_ and despair.  Pain and agony and a deadly mixture of emotions that spread through his body like poison.  Crunched his chest in a grip that threatened to strangle and wrench and _kill._ Remembering, recalling took nothing at all.  

The glass of the radiation chamber and the torrent of _Oh, please no.  Nonononono.  Not yet.  Don't take me yet.  I'm not ready.  Please don't.  I can't._ The pain and the misery and the _want._ Wanting to touch Spock and press their hands together because he _needed_ him to know.  They were friends.  Friends didn't just let friends die.  And friends didn't let friends be afraid and god, Jim had been so afraid.  He needed someone to _know._ To know how utterly afraid he was, to know that he wasn't ready.  Not yet.  Not ever.  But there was glass between them.  Mocking in its sterile coolness and artificial feeling.  

An invisible hand squeezed his lungs.  The feel of everything rushing by in colored blurs was disorientating.  It hurt his eyes.  

He was alone.  So alone.  He was left to face the black hole that threatened to swallow him on his own.  Forced to take the leap with anyone by his side.  His hand curled against the glass.  The rigid, unbreakable glass.  The inches that separated him from his first.  From his… from Spock.  Because it was there, all like a well, and he didn't have a choice.  He had to jump.  Had to take the leap.  The plunge.  The big, final goodbye.  He didn't want to, but he had to.  He wanted to stay...but...b-

 _Breathe_.

No.

He had a choice.

He didn't have to jump.  He had free will.  An ability to choose.  The glass was gone, having melted away so many months ago, and Spock did understand.  There were no last words ringing in his head.  No black hole waiting to swallow him or well inviting him down.  He didn't have to follow.  Didn’t have to trace the footsteps of his father or Pike or Admiral Marcus anymore.  He didn’t have to follow the billions of Vulcans lost to a tragedy or Nero lost to his own hatred or...anyone.  He didn’t have to follow anyone.  And he didn’t have to keep thinking.  Keep remembering what Spock - the other Spock - had once told him; that the Jim Kirk of his timeline was dead.  And he didn’t have to wryly muse that now the Jim Kirk’s of both timelines were dead.  That maybe the Jim Kirk’s of multiple timelines were dead.

It had been a frightening thought.  Still was.  

Because in those last few moments there had been a lot of that.  Frightening thoughts, that was.  He remembered the way his mind had raced back forth in sporadic bursts.  What was only minutes had felt like hours of firing synapses.  Years of thinking and wondering and not knowing. He remembered wondering if the afterlife was the same for everyone.  If there even was one.  He wasn’t sure if there was, but he also wasn’t sure if there wasn’t.  Either way, he remembered wondering about it.  Wondering if everyone from every universe ended up in the same place or it they ended up in different places in different times without ever knowing anything different.  He wondered if he'd ever meet the billions of other _hims_ floating around from all the billions of other universes.  Maybe he’d even meet a couple different Spocks too.  He remembered wondering if the other Spock would ever see _his_ Jim again.  And Jim wondered if he would get to meet him too; both answers - yes or no - scared him.

A lot of things about that day had scared him.  A lot of things still did, too.

When he woke from thundering dreams and he couldn't breath and couldn't remember.  When his lungs couldn't expand and it was like an icy blade had pierced him, because all he could see was darkness and fear and faces buried six feet under.  The water pounded into him - into his very being, his soul and heart and everything that was him.  At first it had hurt.  Pain had seared his nerves and had pinged across his mind like wildfire, but numbness was a wonderful thing.  The pounding was now like a distant echo that rang in his ears, consistent and strong and always _there._ Like a far-away drum line - _rap-tap-tap-rap-tap-tap-rap-tap-tap._

At first it had hurt; he hadn't minded.  It was okay.  At first his uniform had clung to him, still did, but that was okay too.  It was uncomfortable, which meant he could feel it, which meant it was real.

And when it was real and when he knew it was real - when it hurt and when it was uncomfortable - he didn't see Pike and he didn't see Kahn.  He saw nothing but the whiteness of clean shower tiles and eyelashes dusted with clear droplets.  He dreamed of nothing but the sound of smacking, pittering drops and the depths of a voidless darkness.  And when he opened his eyes, he could breath.  He didn't have to wonder who was with him in his quarters, screaming and sobbing as loudly as they were, before realizing he was alone.  He didn't have to wonder who was pounding on his door so loudly at three in the morning only to find Bones, looking so worried it was pitiful.

He didn’t have to wonder or worry because he was alive, god dammit.  

He slept because he was alive and he woke up the next morning for the same reason.  

_I am alive._

The blood pumping through him and the water thrown onto him was living proof.  He did not see what was not there and did not hear what wasn't said and did not dream dreams of panic and fear and - _NogodnoSpock.PleaseSpock.I'msorry.You'remyfriend.PleaseSpock-Spock.Ohgodno._ Sometimes he was just so tired.  And sometimes he woke up feeling hollow.  Like everyone he cared about was a grain of sand slipping through his fingers.  Like everyone was just another face fading away.  His own face was always the first to go.  Sometimes he could remember the feel of having the breath stolen from his body.  And sometimes he could feel the phantom tightening of his chest.  The unraveling of thoughts gone unfinished, slipping away from him like silk threads that he could never quite grasp.  Too slick to catch.  His brain was slipping.  Slip like his hand pressed to cool glass.  He didn't want to leave.  His body drooped and his hand slid downwards - _PleaseSpock.NoSpock.No.Nononono.Don'twanttoleave.No!_

He didn't want to leave...  

He wanted to stay and be here and be okay and alive and happy and he wanted everything to be alright-

And it could.  

 _It could_.  

He didn't have to leave.  He _was_ here and _was_ alive and _was_ okay.  Curled up and resting on his wet sleeves.  He was okay.  The ship was okay.  They were okay.

"Captain?"

He was being lifted by strong arms.  He grunted.  

The distant echo paused.  The drum line hit a frantic rest.

_No.Pleaseno._

In the corner, tucked away by the sink, there was a shadow.  Jim couldn't breath.  It ( _he_ ) was there.  The pain helped.  Told him what was real.  Told him what wasn't.  The pain told him that he was still alive and his ship was still humming and he didn't have to go.  The numbness told him everything in between.  But the pain was gone and so was the numbness.  ( _No.No.Nonononono.Pleaseyoudon'tunderstand.Please!_ ).  His skin dully ached.  His lungs burned.  It didn't hurt.  He couldn't breath.

It - the shadow - smile.  Smiled a smile like knives.

_OhgodPlease.No.Pleaseno._

_Spock.Leave.Pleaseleave._

His mind whirred and sputtered like an old computer.  There were arms on his shoulders and biceps and he fought against them.  He lashed out, seeing nothing but a sharp flash of canines, feeling nothing but his too hot temperature and knowing nothing but that he shouldn't have been there.  He should have been dead.  The shadow and himself.  They should have been dead and Pike should have been alive and God, nothing was fair anymore.

"Captain!"

His shoulders were clasped.  Was it bad that he wished the grip was tight enough to hurt?

"Spock, please..."

_Let me go._

_It helps._

_The pain...it helps._

_The water hurts...and..._

_It helps me sleep._

_Let me go._

_You can't help me._

But he wouldn’t leave.  He was still there and Jim still couldn't breath.  

What if...what if this was what happened when a person died?  What if that was all anything was, death?  None of it was real and all he could do was go through the motions, thinking everything was okay.  It wasn't okay.  Of course it wasn’t okay, but he thought it was and that was the thing.  The trick.  The catch.  Maybe he was being tortured, not knowing what was real and what wasn’t and he _knew_ he never would know.  Maybe it would kill him, the wondering.  Maybe it would drive him insane, the uncertainty.  Break him down and tear him apart and of course _they_ know it.  

And what if - what if Jim was already dead, he just didn't know it?

But...

But that wasn't right.  That couldn't be right.

There were arms still around clutching his biceps.

Jim struggled.  He tried to get away.  He needed to feel.  Something.  The pulverizing mist of the shower on his tender senses.  The echo of mock drums - _raptaptapraptaptap -_ in the distance.  He needed to _know_ because right then he didn't.  Not knowing scared him.

"Captain..."

Two voices.  Different.  So different.  One oily and slick and condescending and dripping with wicked delight, the other concerned and worried but calm and steady and solid and - _ohI'msorry.ImsosorrySpock.Don'tworry.Pleasedon'tworry -_ and he didn't know which was coming from where and which was worried and which was grinning but that they were both gliding together into one voice that slipped and slid and struck him in ways that it shouldn't have.

His stomach dropped.  He tried to push back the rising bile.

His anchor was gone - ripped away by those damned voices - and he was drifting.  Unpleasantly floating on currents of oil and Vaseline and he didn't where he was going or why - just that he was.  He was lost to the darkness.  The only reason he didn't fight was because he couldn't.  He had no choice.  He had to jump.  Had to follow.  

They wouldn't let him stay.

"Jim."

One voice.

_Let me help._

_It is not healthy._

_It is not healthy for you._

_It is illogical to think you can do this on your own._

_Let me help._

He clung to it.  He clung to that voice.

He needed an anchor, as he threaded his fingers through a blue Starfleet shirt and lurched forward.  He needed to feel.  To know and touch and fumble and gasp and breath.  To finally, finally breath without feeling that icy blade in his ribs and that burning in his lungs.

Spock's head thumped against the wall and his bicep was clutched under Jim's steely grasp and his lips-

His lips were melded to Jim's and Jim's to his.  They were touching, with hands and lips and hips and waists, and emotions were rolling like tidal waves and currents with buzzing electricity and drowning torrents - _Desperation.  Want.  Need - so, so much need.  Assurance and pain and suffering, uncertainty_ \- that overwhelmed them both with an intensity neither ever knew existed.  It was so powerful, like a whirlwind, that it was almost as if it was overflowing - _Numb. So numb. It hurt. Raw. Raw and open and it hurt. But it was numb_ \- and he could feel it.  A desert of nothing but dry grit and hollow, empty, loneliness.  Left over from the pounding of so many thoughts and feelings and emotions.  Nothing but the pounding in his head and ache in his chest, that's all he could feel.  And yet...

Those lips.  The crushing, bruising contact of lips being smashed together.  There was nothing sweet about it.  Nothing tender or affectionate to be found.  There was nothing but weeks of pent up hatred and anger and self-loathing.  Teeth.  Nipping, biting, gashing, desperate teeth.  There were no gentle explorations or probing tongues because there was no place for pleasure in this - _Hurt. Pain. Want. Help me. Help me, please. Touch me.  Tell me I'm alive_ \- only the buzzing of outstretched minds, the harshness of mashed together bodies, and the feverity of unspoken assurances.  All open mouths and desperate searching and a crushing, bruising, need for something to latch onto.  

_I'm here._

Their hands heedlessly grabbed for anchorage, as if neither could quite believe the other was really there.  Carelessly skimming and grabbing and clenching at uniformed hues.  Grabbing at black undershirts and holding so tightly it would leave bruises and so harshly it was sure to hurt because this wasn't an illusion and it was okay.  Twisting fists into blue collars, just waiting for it all to dissipate.  For it to run like a watercolor and drip with the painted dyes that weren't really there.

_I will always be here._

Water rolled down Jim's face in fierce rivers - whether from the shower or the tears, no one would ever know.

_Staypleasestay._

_SpockSpockSpockSpock..._

He was murmuring without even noticing.  In between gasps of air and reassuring connections and not-so-reassuring sobs and frantically racing thoughts that rolled off of him in walls of emotion.  "Do it.  Please, Spock.  Just do it."  He didn't know what he was saying.  Didn't know what it meant.  Didn't know what he wanted Spock to do, just that he wanted him to do _something_.  That the nausea in his gut and churning in his body and the pain - _pure, utter pain.  Blissful pain.  I am real.  I am here.  Pain_ \- from where Spock's hands were cutting into him and where his body was pushing was unbearable.

_I shall and always will be, your greatest friend._

_PleaseSpock!_

"Do it."

The shadow was still there.  Smiling.  Taunting.   _Knowing._  Even when Spock lifted a hand to Jim's temple and-

Oh.

_Light.  It was everywhere, light.  Beautiful, blinding light.  It was in every crevice-_

_It was in almost every crevice.  Because in the center there was darkness.  The light wasn’t everywhere.  It was almost everywhere.  Nearly all encompassing.  But nearly wasn’t enough.  Almost wasn’t adequate._

_There was darkness._

_It pulsed pounded thumped like a heart like an organ like it was part of him.  Engulfed in the center, resting in the middle of such beautiful light a dark, clumped tangle of morbid webs and straying strands.  They grasped pulled called.  Tried to grab at the strands of light.  Stretching its holding.  It thumped._

_Worry._

_It was worry.  He was worried.  Spock was worried.  They were worried.  And confused.  So much was going on.  He felt as if he was being pulled under.  Dragged away from the light and… It hurt. There was so much.  Too much.  So many flints of memory and glimpses of darkness and pounding visions-_

_"The ship?"_

_"Out of danger."-_

_Delivering reports from the latest experiments.  Late at night.  Captain more than likely asleep.  Buzzed for entrance.  No response.  Repeated buzz.  Reports important.  Captain not heavy sleeper.  Knocked on door called name no response.  Again.  No response.  Worry.  Worryworryworryworry-_

_He was in the corner.  Watching and waiting and sitting, legs and arms laying across his lap.  He was smirking.  Smirking that wicked, oily smirk.  It made his skin crawl.  He was watching hi  and why was this happening and why, why, why wasn't he dead?  Stop.  Please, please just stop.  Go away.  Go away and leave and don't come back and just stop-!_

_-Worry.  It thrummed through him.  Override codes.  Door opened.  He called out again.  No response.  Louder, no response.  Jim?  Shower running but no response-_

_-"I'm scared, Spock,"  Eyes slowly dying. Blue fading.  Hand slipping, slipping, slipping..._

_-Kahn.  How could-?  His mouth felt dry.  He was in a hospital.  With white, white walls and - he was trapped.  Kahn.  How-?  Staring at Jim.  What-?  Bones.  Kahn was smirking.  Where was Bones?  Where...where..._

_-"Help me not to be... How do you choose not to feel?"  Don't.  Please, don't.  Spock couldn't do it.  He couldn't command a ship.  He wasn’t fit for it.  He was never meant to be a Captain.  And he knew it.  Always had.  Jim, he couldn't die.  He couldn't-_

_-Jim was here.  Computer had said as such; his quarters.  Computers do not possess the ability of deception.  Jim had to be here.  He was.  There was - Jim!-_

_-"I do not know.  But right now I am failing."  Miserably. Failing miserably and embarrassingly.  But...Jim.  His eyelids drooping.  His head pressed against the glass.  He could feel the heat.  Of the radiation.  Cells dying.  Blood slowing.  He was...he was-_

_-"Why're you here?"  Voice was cracked and raw and dry and slurred and oh god, what happened?  Kahn laughed, didn't say anything but laughed.  Suddenly Jim remembered.  Dead.  He should be dead.  Maybe both of them should be.  Maybe...maybe...they were dead together and this was what hell really was...maybe..._

_-Skin more flushed than it should.  His clothes wet and soaked.  Breathing shallow so shallow but his eyes were open.  Sightless and unseeing.  But not there.  Where was he?  Be okay.  Be okay, Jim-_

_-"I want you to know...why I couldn't let you die..."  But he already knew.  He knew.  He was just now realizing.  But he knew.  Too little, too late-_

_-Jim!  Be okay, be okay!  Oh...Jim..._

_(Spock?)_

_The memories slowed.  Sharp singes still flashing but no longer overpowering.  Jim...he grasped forward but...he couldn't.  It was...odd.  Not being able to reach or grasp and he felt lost.  Really lost like he didn't know where he was and all he saw where these dark explosions and these bursts of pain and hurt and fear - so much fucking fear - and shame and so much...so many emotions that he felt like he was drowning in them.  But he could breath.  He was drowning, but the further he sunk the more he could breath.  The less his chest ached and the the less his head pounded and he could see those tiny little rays of light peeling through the visions that he didn't want to see-_

_(Spock?!)_

_(I am here.)_

_Gasping.  He was gasping for breath.  Because he could breath.  But the darkness was still there and - (Spock, where are you?) - he was reaching out and Spock said he was there but where was there?  Where was here?  It was dark and it was light all at once.  It was confusing.  Jim was feeling so many things at once and he wasn't sure what was what and who's emotions were who's and he didn't know.  He didn't know why was he worried that he wasn't responding - (I am here.) - when he knew he was responding because he was himself.  He didn't know.  And-_

_(Where?  I'm confused Spock.  I don't know.  Spock...I'm confused...I...)_

_The scene shifted.  Lurched forward in a way that threatened to make him sick.  A sidewalk.  A busy intersection.  A crowd of bustling bodies and sure-footed joggers. The Golden Gate Bridge was in the background.  San Francisco.  His gaze shifted through the crowd, the people-_

_No._

_He could feel his stomach clench, the urge to vomit so close.  It was as if a lead weight had been dropped in his intestines.  Twisting and churning and - he felt as if he were going to pass out._

_Nononononononononononono-_

_It shouldn’t have been possible.  He shouldn’t have been there.  Shouldn’t have been possible  But...but it was.  He (it, that thing, that_ monster _that killed so many - Pike and Marcus and so many admirals and so many other innocent people too scared to move - and almost killed his crew_ ) _was smirking._

_(Breath, Jim.  Breath.)_

_The voice was distant.  A faint echo in the back of his head.  A barely there whisper.  He ignored it._

_He had to.  Because he couldn't breath.  Didn't have time to breath.  He had to warn them.  The people.  The innocent bystanders, the people who didn’t fucking_ know, _the people who didn’t deserve this, the - everyone.  They were milling around, as if it everyone was okay and normal and fine and it wasn’t, it motherfucking wasn’t okay.  Like a psychopathic killer standing within their midst was normal and okay and was no one going to stop him?_

_Was no one...no one going to do something?!_

_Maybe they didn’t see him.  They didn’t see him.  They didn’t see or take notice, but how?  How could they not see or notice or hear or do anything?!  He was there and he was smirking and he was doing something.  Something sinister and fowl and...and more people were going to die he couldn't watch more people die.  He couldn’t let it happen.  Not again.  Over a thousand.  He had let over a thousand people die already and he couldn't let anymore die and why weren't they running?!  Why were they just motherfucking standing there?!  They were just standing there as if he wasn't there when he clearly was.  And why-_

_His world tilted to the side.  The sidewalk spun in disorientating patterns but that...no.  It couldn’t.  He couldn’t let it because he had to do something.  To stop him.  He couldn’t just stand there.  He tried to take a step and stumbled.  Or maybe he fell.  He didn’t know.  He had to reach Kahn.  Someone was shouting at him but he didn’t know who or why or where or when or anything except that they shouldn’t be shouting but running.  Leaving.  Scattering.  They were in danger too.   Bones (that’s who was shouting, it was Bones.  Bones) was in danger and Jim couldn't stop it because he was just a man with blood that wasn't his and a body broken in more places than most._

_His vision spun.  His stomach lurched._

_He was just...a guy_.

_(Jim.  Concentrate.)_

_(But...he... Spock, he's there, he's...)_

_The crowded San Francisco sidewalk faded._

_(Jim.)_

_In its place was nothing but darkness._

_His conscious convulsed.  It was odd, like being ripped apart and put back together at the same time.  Jim didn’t like it.  His conscious, his mind and soul convulsed again.  He felt so full.  Overflowing with emotions he didn’t have time for and feelings he didn’t need.  Worry.  Hatred - so, so, so much hatred.  Confusion.  Pity.  His life was like a hurricane in the middle of a dessert, with whirlwinds that wiped sand into his face and an empty hollowness created from the aftermath of_ too much.   _Emotions.  Feelings.  People.  Worries.  Fears.  Anxieties.  Everything.  His conscious convulsed again.  It ached._

_It wasn’t a bodily ache, where the pain could be pinpointed and compartmentalized.  Or even forgotten, if there was enough adrenaline.  It was all-consuming.  A constant throbbing that beat in rhythm to a non-existent drumline._

_Another wave of convulsion._

_He felt like crying._

_(Jim.  You must breathe.  The pain will not ease if you do not breathe.)_

_The voice was stronger, somehow.  Like the source was right next to him, whispering into his ear.  Soothing him._

_The throbbing faded to the background._

_He felt...surrounded.  And he wasn’t alone.  Not anymore.  He was safe.  The light.  There was light and it was such beautiful light.  It was shimmering.  Like clouds.  Glittering clouds with stardust and tiny little suns.  It was growing growing growing with such intensity and it washed over him like fire.  But it didn't hurt.  Not like fire.  But he knew.  He was alive and okay and he didn't feel pain but he could feel - (Am I-?  Are we-?) - something.  He could feel something.  Not the pounding of water or ringing of blood in his ears but - (Yes.  Our minds are one for the time being.) - something.  And it was nice.  Soothing and calming.  Something was wrapping around him, engulfing him; it took far too long to realize that thing was Spock.   That he was in Spock's brain and Spock was in his and suddenly there was fear because crazy shit happened in his brain._

_But that was okay._

_Soothing.  It was soothing.  Washing over him like waves of fire and ice that didn't burn.  Spock didn't burn because that's what this was, it was Spock.  All of him.  Spock would never hurt him because he was...he was Spock.  He was tinted with dark purple edges of worry, but that was okay.  Jim didn't think let himself think about it.  He doubted his consciousness had any better of a look to it.  It was probably worse._

_(Oh. I’m sorry.  Y’know, for, like, jumping you.)_

_He could breath._

_(You were emotionally distressed, it is of no consequence.)_

_He felt his conscious - or his soul or his mind, or whatever this was - expand and deflate.  Not the convulses of before, but gentle rises and falls.  Expand, deflate.  Expand, deflate.  He was breathing.  Letting it in and releasing it out.  It didn't hurt.  For once.  There was no blade sticking through his chest or hand around his throat or burn in his lungs.  No gasping or wheezing or hyperventilating or...anything.  It was nice.  So nice.  Nice to be here and to be in and around and below and everywhere._

_(Thanks...I think?)_

_(It was neither a compliment nor an insult.)_

_(Oh.)_

_Soothing.  Calm.  He felt like he was drifting.  Maybe he was.  Maybe he was actually drifting.  He was drifting but Spock was holding him down like an anchor.  Tethering him fro, below the waters while Jim drifted listlessly and softly like nothing else existed but others things did exist and he could feel them because the meld was weakening-_ his hands hurt from clutching so hard.  His lips were swollen and bruised and flushed red like his cheeks - _and fluctuating -_ they were still kissing in an odd way.  Breathing into one another, lips mostly stilled except for the occasional comforting flick.  Water still streamed down Jim's face and hiccups still broke past his lips but he wasn't struggling and he didn't see shadows.  Instead he was just...resting there, clinging to Spock like his life depended on it.  And in a way, it did - _he didn't want to leave.  It was nice here, with their minds connected and Jim not having to think.  Just feel.  Let Spock do the thinking and let Spock take care of it because he was so good at it and Jim just wasn't._

_(We cannot stay here for forever, Jim.)_

_He could breath._

_(Jim.)_

_(I know.)_

_Blinding light.  Freedom.  He was free.  Spock was freeing him and grounding him all at once and thank you Spock.  Thank you thank you thank you thank you.  Saved.  He was saved.  He did not hurt.  He was saved and did not hurt and he did not see shadows or smiles or smirks and he didn't hear thundering but that was okay and he would hold onto that as long as he could and Spock would too because they were both broken and shallow and neither of them quite knew what to do with themselves.  They knew it.  Everyone knew it.  But no one would admit it so they slept on shower floors and meditated when they knew it wouldn't work even though they hoped it did even though hope was stupid and illogical_ \- Jim's grip tightened - _it was retreating.  The light.  Folding in on itself.  A shame.  That was a shame_ \- He clung to Spock's uniform as his hands shook - _Thank you.  Thank you._

He gasped.  It was as if someone had poured a bucket of cold ice water on him, when Spock's mind finally, fully retreated.  He could briefly feel his own mind clumsily reach out but to no response.  It wasn't there.  Nothing was.  The thread that bound them was broken and...

He felt far emptier than he should have.

He tore his lips completely away from Spock's probably quicker than he should have, sharply turning his head to rest on his Commander's shoulder.  He buried his head in the field of blue, seeing nothing but planes of fabric and feeling nothing but the unsteady flexing of his hands on strong biceps.  His grip was so tight, tight as iron but so shaky it was pathetic.  Wet splotches spotted Spock's uniform, little dots spread across his shoulder.  Jim told himself that it was from the shower.  That the pool of wetness on his First's shoulder wasn't salty, that it was from the water dripping down his forehead and soaking his hair.  Water dripped down his eyelashes and into his eyes.  He blinked against it, but he refused to look up.  He knew what would be waiting if he did.

The corner.  Shadows.  A smile like knives.

A cold, churning sensation spiked in his gut.  Spock's grip tightened around him.  He buried his head into his First’s shoulder.  He could breathe.  He was alive.  And maybe if he didn’t look, he could pretend.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, I also lurk on [Tumblr](http://www.se7endevil.tumblr.com) and [Livejournal](http://www.se7endevils.livejournal.com). Hit me up, send me a message, a prompt, tell me how much you absolutely despise me. Y'know.


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